


A Fine Specimen

by Northby



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northby/pseuds/Northby
Summary: Harry Goodsir observes Mr Collins. At first, from afar. Then closer, closer...
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	A Fine Specimen

Goodsir is relieved to find that, except few light bouts of nausea and dizziness here and there in the first days of the voyage, he managed to avoid seasickness. It takes him longer to find his sea legs. Keeping upright, especially with his arms full, while Erebus is rocking on the waves still proves to be a challenge.

He forgets to be careful sometimes, his mind always on something else, be it an organism observed under the microscope and drawn in detail, that cannot vacate his thoughts or a conundrum brought by a specimen previously unknown to science. Water under the ship, dark and impenetrable to the naked eye, under the lens reveals an abundance of life. He feels elated with the prospect of the unknown becoming known. Walking the decks in such a state feels almost like flying, sometimes quite literally.

As he is on his way to the sick bay, his fingers digging through the box of slides he wants to examine again, the ship tilts sideways hard enough to throw him of balance. The force of the wave thrown under the keel pushes his body to the right. He tries to brace himself, to position himself in such a way as to protect the slides, but before he hits the wall a counter force grabs him by the arm, steadies him at the waist and pulls him upright.

'Steady,' says Mr Collins behind him, keeping a firm grip on his body. 'All right, doctor?'

'Yes,' he turns to face the man and is met with a gentle smile. 'Thank you, Mr Collins.' He knows he should correct him. He is not a doctor, merely an anatomist, but the title sounds so nice in his voice that it slips his mind. And then Mr Collins releases him and he is free to go.

The ship is never quiet with so many people enclosed in such a small space. In the sick bay, with eye on the ocular, he hears a murmur of conversation; voices too far away to discern words, but he is sure that one of them belongs to Mr Collins. He can pick it out easily by now. And although Mr Collins does not seem to talk a lot, at least not among other officers, usually only answering when asked, Goodsir always listens; the man has a pleasant quality to his voice, he has observed. So by now he easily catches Mr Collins' voice in the scraps of conversations he picks during the day or in orders given to the sailors; he doesn't need to turn his head for confirmation, he does it anyway. He is as aware of his voice just as he is aware of the warmth of his body when their thighs touch in the cramped officer's mess or the lingering tingle his grip has left on his body.

Goodsir can't say he knows Mr Collins that well, nonetheless he can't help to like him. There is something gentle in the man's face and he seems to be well liked among the crew. He once heard, it was just before they set sail, Mr Blanky tell Mr Reid: 'He's a good lad, Collins is. Reliable and hard-working.' Now each time he sees Mr Collins working, he sees the words confirmed.

And there's another thing. Mr Collins (his Christian name is Henry, Goodsir noticed while signing the muster book), is the type of a man that catches his eye a touch too easily, holds it a touch too long. It's nothing improper, not at all. He simply appreciates a fine physique, as an anatomist. And Mr Collins, broad-shouldered and brawny, is indeed, a fine specimen. A large man he is, tall and wide with a face framed by dark, unruly hair that somehow, over a course of days, has gone from pleasant to handsome.

He watches him sometimes on the upper deck, discreetly of course, when he can spare a moment between his duties as an assistant surgeon and naturalist. For instance when, standing up and stretching his back after crouching over a bucket of seawater that is yet to be examined, he spots Mr Collins in the rigging. The strength, the skill and experience in action; makes a man truly appreciate the wonder the human body is. Goodsir is sure, as he looks up, that Mr Collins could lift him of the ground without much effort, could do anything he wanted with him. 

He tries not to look for too long, lest Mr Collins notices.

They see each other every day anyway, attending to their work. Such is the nature of the life on a ship. Mr Collins always acknowledges him with a nod, a smile and the honorific. He should correct him, he knows, he tries to remember but each time they pass each other the thought vanishes. Instead, there is a pleasant little flutter in his stomach.

Their cabins happen to be located vis-à-vis, Goodsir's on the starboard side, Mr Collins' on the port side. He glances at Mr Collins door each evening, on his way to turn in. He's made a habit of checking if the ligth is on, shining through the slits. This time it is not. Instead, Mr Collins stands in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, suspenders hanging at his sides. Fagin, the ship's cat almost as good at avoiding his duties as doctor Stanley is, has stretched his lean body to its full length, resting his paws against Mr Collins' leg. He gives a quiet meow, pleading in tone while Mr Collins scratches him behind the ear.

'Yes, yes. Of course,' he says to the animal, as if they both could understand each other.

The cat leans into the touch, meows again and is rewarded with more scratches and strokes. The man's work-rough fingers glide lightly over the side of cat's face and under its chin, ruffling the fur and then smoothing it back again and again. 'Oh, I know what you're after,' Mr Collins says to him and reaches to his pocket. Cat's interest piques, it's body stretches even further up towards a morsel of food now between Mr Collins' fingers. 'There. You like it? Of course you do,' he says as the cat greedily devours this little offering.

Goodsir is about to turn away and leave when Mr Collins rises his head. He lifts a finger to his lips and Goodsir seals the promise with a grin. The smile is still on his face when he lies down, the thought of strong hands providing a gentle caress carries him to sleep.

'So, you are the reason behind Fagin's lack of appetite for rats.' Goodsir says when Mr Collins approaches him the next morning. They lean on the bulwark, so close to each other that Goodsir thinks he could brush his shoulder against him without it seeming odd. The ocean is calm, dips and humps on its surface reflect sunrays that managed to pierce through a thick layer of pewter clouds.

'Are you going to chastise me for my kind heart, doctor?' he says smiling. The salty breeze is tussling his dark hair, making waves in them like the ones on the water.

'Oh no, never, Mr Collins. Never for that.' Goodsir turns to face him, to see fully that playful smile he can hear in his voice. 'But your kindness may spoil the feeble-willed creature. I'm just worried that he may desert his vocation altogether and leave us all at the mercy of rodents.'

Mr Collins' smile widens, tilts to the side in a rakish but not unpleasant way.

'I see no feeble will in him **,** rather a natural need for comfort all God's creatures share. I have neither desire nor power to corrupt him, doctor. Truth be told, it's him, who has me at his mercy. When a pair of bright eyes in that dear little face stares straight into mine, I find myself unable to refuse anything.'

They are only talking about the cat, Goodsir is sure, but the warmth pooling in his stomach wants to argue otherwise; he turns back to the ocean. They stand in silence for a while before Mr Collins leans towards him and pointing to the east says into his ear, 'There, do you see?'

And indeed, his eyes follow Mr Collins' finger and sight, close to the horizon, a humpback whale, breaking the surface of water.

'Here,' says Mr Collins passing him his spyglass.

As Goodsir watches the whale appear and hide again in the opaque ocean he can feel that Mr Collins is watching him. He does not have a strength to confront his eyes.

There is a commotion outside that make Goodsir rise his head from his reading. The door slides open and in walks Mr Collins, with one ship's boy leaning heavily on him and another one in tow. The first one, Robert Golding has a nasty gash on his brow that bleeds profusely down the side of his face and onto his clothing, the other one – Tom Evans, looks pale and shaken.

'I didn't mean to. I swear,' he says to Goodsir who happens to be closest to him. 'I am really sorry, it was an accident.'

'Onto the table with him,' orders Dr Stanley.

As Mr Collins tries to maneuver Golding there, keeping him upright as much as his limp body allows. The boy grunts and sways towards Mr Collins, grimacing.

'The bucket, Mr Goodsir,' Dr Stanley calls, but before Goodsir can grab it, Golding empties his stomach on Mr Collins. The whole sick bay freezes for a moment surveying the damage. Mr Collins look down his chest with a sigh of resigned acceptance. Dr Stanley doesn't try to hide his exasperation.

'And a rag,' he adds in a tone matching his expression.

Vomiting somehow makes the boy come round and realise what's happened. His eyes widen and he starts apologising to Mr Collins.

'That's all right lad. Don't worry about it,' says he, helping the boy up the table, and passes him the bucket Goodsir fetches belatedly, but just in case. Goodsir then sends Evans to fetch warm water from the galley before this one too starts apologising again. He grabs the rag and passes it to Mr Collins, who tries to clean himself as best as he can with only his left hand having propped Golding straight with his right.

'There,' says Goodsir taking it back. 'Let me.'

'Thank you,' says Mr Collins.

Dr Stanley starts examining the wound. It needs stitching, he proclaims and if Golding had enough strength left in him, the proposed treatment would make him bolt out through the door. He only manages a faint  _ please, no _ . 

'Now, now. It won't be that bad I'll stay with you if you want.' Mr Collins says patting Golding on the shoulder, but the boy doesn't look reasured. Evans walks with the water and it's too late for him to contemplate his predicament. Goodsir washes off the blood, prepares the needle and catgut for Dr Stanley, and the procedure begins.

Golding bears the stitching bravely. Mr Collins, to Goodsir's amusement, not so much. He makes a mistake of looking at the wound when the needle pierces the skin and for a moment it looks like the bucket is going to be put to a good use. He looks up an around the bay till his eyes stop on Goodsir. He holds his gaze, shares a smile till the colour comes back to his face.

When the wound is stitched and dressed Mr Collins pulls Goodsir aside, as much out of the earshot of Dr Sstanley as the size of the sickbay allows.

'He and Evans were larking in the mess. Evans pushed him, he tripped and hit the corner of a table. He hasn't hit his head that hard,' he says. 'Only when he saw blood, well – he keeled over. I didn't say anything to spare him embarrassment.'

'Oh. Well, good to know. I was worried, with the vomiting – I still think it's better to keep him here overnight.'

'Am I needed? It's just - ' Mr Collins looks down his uniform. 'I'm afraid that I make for a rather unpleasant company in my current condition.

'Yours is never an unpleasant company,' Goodsir says without thinking. Mr Collins gives him that grin, lopsided and quite dashing. The embarrassment for his hasty words that was rising in him settles and turns into something different altogether.

'Very well doctor, then I'll allow myself to come over later.'

'To ask about the patient?'

'Why, of course.' Mr Collins smiles with a glint of something not unlike mischief in his eyes.

He does come over, later in the evening when Goodsir is on his own, bearing two steaming teacups. One is for Goodsir, the other for Golding. But the boy is asleep, snoring faintly in his hammock. He was given a small dose of laudanum at Dr Stanley's request, (for a sleeping patient benefits from the rest as much as Dr Stanley benefits from having said patient out of his hair) so Mr Collins takes the tea for himself. They sit at the small table crammed in the back corner of the sick bay where Goodsir keeps his microscope and does most of his writing. Their knees touch under the tabletop. Not that they can help it in such a small space. Not that Goodsir minds. Mr Collins doesn't seem to mind either; he asks about his work.

Talking about it to someone without scientific background is tricky. Usually, Goodsir has noticed, his interlocutors tend to show signs of being bored when he allows himself to talk too much or in too great detail. There is this slight fidgeting or their eyes start to wander, as if they were looking for a way out or at least a reason to change the subject. He then feels obliged to apologiese, to ask if he bores them and they feel obliged to say that no, not at all and it's all very interesting and etc. All courtesy of course, so he cuts it short after that.

It's different with Mr Collins, who ask questions (relevant questions!), wants to see his drawings, asks if he can take a look at the specimen under the microscope (of course, he can!) and finally, when he finds out that Goodsir's findings and the observations on the open sea fauna bear relevance to his own past experience as a whaler, he shares that with Goodsir.

Finally, the bell rings, indicating an hour much later than he expects and they must part.

Looking back, Goodsir thinks, Dr Stanley was probably right about the benefits of laudanum.

Golding wakes briefly some time after that.

'Mr Collins came here earlier, to enquire how you're faring,' Goodsir says to him, as the boy moves in his hammock and looks around with barely open eyes.

'How are you feeling? Better?' he asks. The boy confirms. He's barely conscious, laudanum hasn't loosened its grip over him yet.

'That's nice of Mr Collins to come and ask about you. He seems like a nice man, don't you think?' Goodsir asks busying himself with putting the bottles and equipment in order. Since the man's visit he's been feeling this buzz of energy that compels him to move and yet stops him from doing anything really productive. He almost feels like singing.

'He seems to be well liked among the crew. 'I've heard many nice things about him. Mr Blanky says -.'

'I've heard he has a large prick,' Golding supplies. That song inspiring force hits Goodsir right in the nether regions and a vial of castor oil almost slips out of his hand.

'Well, Robert, human bodies come in various shapes and sizes,' he says a little breathlesly. Imagine!'

Later, in his bunk, he tries hard not to.

'I'd like to take a look at it,' Goodsir says quietly to Mr Collins. He kept glancing at him throughout the meal, thinking how to best broach the subject. Finally, he takes a chance to corner him on his way to his cabin.

'Oh, I'm sure you would. And I would like to know which one ratted on me,' Mr Collins frowns.

'I'm afraid I cannot divulge.'

'One of the boys, wasn't it? Of course it was.'

'Mr Collins' Goodsir says reproachfully and Mr Collins makes a face like a petulant child. 'Mr Collins, it is not to satisfy my curiosity. I'm a surgeon. It is my duty.'

'It's just, I don't think there is anything to look at.'

“Well, I'll be judge of that.'

Mr Collins is silent.

'You're not afraid of me, are you?' Goodsir tries to make the awkward conversation light.

'No,' he says pointedly. 'I am not afraid of _you_.'

'Very well, Mr Collins. At seven bells then. I'll be on my own in the sick bay.'

Mr Collins looks first at Goodsir, then at his swollen finger and, defeated, sighs.

He is on time, sits himself on the chair and lets Goodsir take a look at his left ring finger.

'It looks quite swollen, can you bend it at all?'

'Not rally.' Mr Collins demonstrates. 'It hurts when I try to move it.'

Goodsir takes Mr Collins' hand in his, as delicately as possible. There is a swelling, he saw that earlier but the skin is not broken. It is as he suspected, his index finder is sprained, he says so to Mr Collins.

'How did it happen?' he asks.

'Silly accident,' Mr Collins answers, not inclined to elaborate. Goodsir waits for him to continue. The man smiles, and shakes his head.

'I missed a step on the ladder.' He shrugs. 'And then, well –' He lifts his hand in lieu of explanation. 'Hit my arm on the way, too.'

'Oh, does it hurt? Your arm that is. I can take a look,' says Goodsir. He wants to see Mr Collins, his arm that is. He saw Mr Collins move it without any problem, but it is better to be thorough.

'Should I -' Mr Collins lifts a hem of his sweater.

'Yes. Yes I think that it will be more comfortable.'

'You'll have to help me then, I don't think I can manage without upsetting my finger.'

Goodsir is always willing to help and to help Mr Collins especially. He only hopes that Mr Collins won't notice the slight tremor in his hands as he takes over the hem of the sweater and pushes it up.

Mr Collins pulls his right hand out of the sleeve, then Goodsir pulls the sweater over his head, tussling his hair in the proces; then the left hand is extricated carefully. Mr Collins slids off his suspenders and Goodsir strats working on the collar of his shirt. 'Allow me,' he says quietly when he's done with buttons and slides his hands behind Mr Collins. He gets up to give Goodsir a better acces, their bodies rub against each other, close as they are, and Goodsir's breath catches in his throath. He pulls up the shirt over his back and head, releases his arms and Mr Collins sits back on the chair.

Goodsir looks up and takes in the man in front of him. The sick bay is dark, with candles being the only sources of light at this late hour. No matter, it is good enough for medical examination.

Now, that the clothes do not obscure his body the man seems even broader in shoulder and chest. He has tattoos – one on his left shoulder and another on his chest. The first one is an anchor, three inches long and rather crudely done. The other is barely visible under his hair but looks like a hart pierced with an arrow. And he is hairy, Goodsir bits his lip to suppress a smile. It is not unpleasant, quite contrary. Thick, dark hair cover his pectorals, and then, lower, create a line running down from his belly button and disappearing under the waist of his trousers. Goodsir doesn't allow his thought to follow it. He only regrets that the sick bay is so dark for such a body should be admired in a broad daylight. Yes, and perhaps somewhere more private where the voices from the outside would not seep through the walls, where they only would hear their own breaths. Goodsir imagines them in place like that, in a room far away, where they have all the time in the world.

'Doctor?' Mr Collins looks at him, his eyebrows raised.

'Yes. Right.' Goodsir shakes off his reverie and proceeds with the examination. He takes the man's wrist gently in hand and bends the arm at the elbow. Then, moving up the bicep, touches it, squeezes gently noting Mr Collins reaction.

Mr Collins seems tense, his breathing is slow. Each time he lifts his eyes he meets Mr Collins' looking at him intently. They seem darker than usual, pupils dilated. It's the darkness, Goodsir thinks.

'Everything all right, doctor?' Mr Collins asks in a low voice.

Goodsir nods. Suddenly, he too feels out of breath. 'You will need cold water,' he says slowly. 'Or - or ice.'

Mr Collins' eyebrows knit together.

'Yes, for the swelling.'

'Swelling?'

'Your – your finger.'

'Oh.'

'Let me – I need to – it should be stiff.'

'My finger?'

'Yes.' Goodsir swallows, he feels his face burn. 'I' ll put it in a splint. You should try to keep it erec – elevated if possible.

'As you wish, doctor. I will keep it stiff and erect.' Mr Collins says gently keeping Goodsir's gaze. He's jesting, Goodsir can tell. There is something else too, in his voice and in his expression that Goodsir is desperate to read as an invitation.

'I'll put it in a splint.'

He steps away, just in case he errs.

'I couldn't notice your – your tattoos.' He steers to a different subject, tries to brake the tension.

'One of my professors collected tattoos.' he says. 'Cut out of cadavers, kept them preserved in – oh, I'm sorry that's a bit morbid.'

Mr Collins chuckles.' No. I mean, yes – but as long as you don't want to cut them out of me - '

'No, of course not.' Goodsir smiles. 'I've heard how they are done. It sounds quite painful.'

'Decidedly less so when one is young, inebriated, and in a company,' says Mr Collins. 'Although it was long time ago. I can assure you, doctor that I am much less inclined to such recklessness now,' he ads.

'Ah. Good to know, Mr Collins. If I may ask?'

Mr Collins nods.

'I know that the anchor means crossing the Atlantic, but the other one -'

'Well, there was a girl,' Mr Collins says slowly. 'But she ended up marrying someone else.'

'Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - '

'No, that's all right.' Mr Collins smiles and it puts Goodsir at ease. 'I don't have any – I'm sure that she would have made a good wife and we would have been happy, in a way but - ' Mr Collins weights his words. 'It turned out the best it could for the both of us. Sometimes one wants something -'

'More?' Goodsir supplies.

'Different,' Mr Collins corrects.

Mr Collins leaves the sick bay with his finger in a splint and Goodsir sits back at his table. He leans back in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. It's late, he is tired.

Behind his closed eyes he is back in that imagined room, back with Mr Collins – shirtless and willing. He takes a deep breath and opens Mr Collins' trousers.

~*~

Later, at night as Mr Collins tugs himself off and his brain supplies him with pictures, varying in degree of obscenity but all involving the same man, he is struck with a thought. He's a sailor with some years of experience under his belt; he had his share of perils. This is a dangerous profession after all. But as he sits in darkness of his cabin, his hard, wet cock twitches in his hand, he is certain that not a wound, disease nor depths of the ocean but one doctor Goodsir will be the death of him.


End file.
